


Predator and Prey

by starhawk2005



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Other, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John enjoys his bedroom games. Especially if they involve rope…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predator and Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: John Winchester/Someone. Yes, ‘someone’. Which male or female canon character is it, you ask? Read and find out!  
> Disclaimer: He’s SO not mine. But my husband isn’t complaining about that. ;)  
> Beta: medicinal_mirth rocks. If I could, I’d FedEx Sam and Dean to her, wearing nothing but posing pouches.

John knocks back a shot of Jack Daniels, savouring the burn on the way down. He’s not drunk - not even close - because he has a ‘job’ to do; it’s more to feel the sensuality of it. He stretches languidly, also just for the sheer pleasure of it.

The room is dark, just the way he likes it for this sort of thing. An illusion of threat, of menace. As per request.

John studies the figure bound to the chair in the middle of the room. He strides casually in a slow circle around his captive, studying the view intently from all angles. 

He doesn’t say anything, just lets the tension build for long moments.

He finally approaches the chair, putting out a hand and tracing light fingertips down over temple and cheekbone. Those familiar lips are distorted a little by the gag, but John doesn’t mind. Again, he’s employed it by request.

John wraps strong fingers around that chin, and makes his partner look up at him. A smile, slow and warm, crosses John’s face as he moves his other hand to undo the gag.

“Ssssh,” he cautions, when they seem about to speak. “Don’t say a word,” he rumbles in his lowest register. He traces the tip of his thumb around well-formed lips, the shape of them something he could draw in the dark from memories alone, if he had to. When he’s done, he watches raptly as a slick tongue comes out, moistening skin he’s just touched. 

His prisoner is trembling slightly - he can feel it under his hand - but he doubts it has anything to do with fear. He’s performed this little play for two a number of times. There’s too much trust between them, no matter how _helpless_ he’s made them, for fear.

He leans down, almost lazily kissing that tender mouth. But it turns forceful quickly, his tongue pushing inside, tasting, giving a taste of the alcohol still lingering on his tongue in return. He gets a noise, a sound of surrender, in response, and he savours that too.

John stands up, towering ominously, and replaces the gag, tightening it down firmly. He stalks in a circle again, predator’s glare firmly in place.

He may well ‘devour’ his prey, after a fashion.

In fact, before long he figures it’s time for an appetizer. He stops in front of the chair and leans down again, starting to pop shirt buttons free, one by slow one. There’s no clothing under the shirt to remove – part of _John_ ’s request – so there’s no impediment to him kneeling down in front of the chair, between bound, spread legs, and leaning in to taste a round, dark pink nipple. It stiffens under the laps of his tongue, and John’s efforts are also rewarded by squirming against ropes, answering moans muffled behind the gag. His own arousal increases, the pressure starting to build.

John grins again, evilly, and leans back, taking both nipples in his hands now. Kneading and tugging, savouring the reaction. He gets more noise in return, watching as his partner’s head lolls back, eyes closed, breathing increasing. The scent of arousal is sharp in the room now, heat and musk, and he wants more. They’re going to _give_ him more. They have no choice.

He pushes the shirt back, shoving the fabric down pinned arms. It’s a little chilly in here, and goosebumps soon rise on newly-bared skin, and John adds to the sweet torment by licking wet paths around those erect little nipples, down the smooth plane of belly. Exhaling softly on wet skin, to increase the chill, and John has to shift, himself, trying to ease some of the ache gathering inside his own body.

He curls powerful hands around sharp hipbones, tugging his prisoner forward in the chair as much as the bindings allow. He chuckles darkly, teasingly, as he slowly pops open the jeans button and lowers the zipper. John pulls the pants almost idly down, over pale-fleshed thighs, then down over the knees. No underwear to contend with – another of his stipulations earlier, when negotiations were traded back and forth – and he’s glad of it. He doesn’t want the fabric to get in his way, so he unties one ankle, just long enough to pull the pants leg down over it, and then binds the limb firmly once more. Methodically, he repeats the process on the other ankle.

Finally, he sits back on his heels and takes in the sight. He can see even more trembling now, with anticipation, and he extends the wait. Drawing it out for long moments. He wishes he’d demanded the use of a blindfold, too, but it’s too late for that now. Maybe next time. He loves that moment, when he touches unexpectedly, from out of the blue, and the reaction is to jump a mile and gasp like he’s stabbed them. Except it’s usually a caress. Sometimes a spank.

Leisurely, he places a warm hand on one knee, then slides it slowly up, along the inside of the thigh. He pauses to occasionally draw random patterns on ticklish skin. Hot, curly hair lies at the end of his journey, waiting to be cradled in his palm, but he still draws it out, skipping over the key spot, instead sliding his hand up over the belly and up, squeezing each nipple once more, before making his slow caressing way back down – to the other thigh.

Sound spills from behind the gag, begging him, and hips are being pushed forward, pleading, and it’s tempting to keep at this. Increase the _desperation_. But he has his own needs, his own desperate hunger, throbbing hotly inside his own tight jeans. So he decides to give them both what they want, putting deft fingers where they both want it, teasing over damp, coarse hair.

Slick skin under his fingers, and he strokes and presses, knowing all the right places to touch, exploring the familiar landscape. Finally reacquainted to his satisfaction, he shifts up onto his knees so he can use his mouth, allowing his stubbled cheek to burn along the sensitive skin of the inner thigh, nipping with careful teeth as he makes his way up until his lips and tongue can engage themselves with the same needy spots.

He suckles and licks with long, wet strokes. Exhaling again on moist skin at times, to produce that delicious shiver, and then warming the cooled areas with his mouth. He wants his lover to come, helpless and at his mercy, so he makes them tilt their hips even further up. He then moistens his finger liberally with saliva, and slips it a little ways into them. Just enough to tease at the entrance, to tickle sensitive nerves, while he sucks hard on tender flesh.

It doesn’t take long. He knows the right rhythms to use, knows how to read every flex and spasm of that body. The beads of sweat forming on the skin under his hands are like a Braille only he can read, telling him just how close to release his partner is. When the climax happens, he swallows it all down, eagerly, enjoying it as much – if not more – as the JD he imbibed earlier.

His captive is limp, spent. John can feel the heat radiating from their skin, scent the change in their musk.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

John gets up, then strides across the room, picking up the long, sharp blade from the top of the dresser. He walks back, systematically slicing through the bonds. First the ankle ropes, then the wrist bindings. He makes sure to let the cold metal brush against heated skin each time – again, the illusion of threat, since he has no intention at all of seeing that pale skin stained red with blood – knowing full well how good it feels.

He’s got another length of rope already prepared in his pocket, so he walks behind the chair, pulling their wrists behind them. A few practiced movements, and they’re _his_ again, hands imprisoned but feet free.

“Go over to the side of the bed,” he growls. “And then get on your knees. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

He gives the orders here, and they obey. Those are the rules. So even though he knows his lover would much rather rest in the chair, catch their breath, they get up, walking a little awkwardly on wobbly legs, grunting softly behind the gag as the position he demanded is assumed.

It’s not quite right, so John comes over and rearranges them just so, head and torso pressed into the mattress, knees on the floor and spread wide. There. He has complete access. He steps back a pace or two to enjoy the view, as he sheds his shirt and undoes his jeans, the sound of the zipper going down shockingly loud in the quiet room.

John’s so hard, so full of _ache_ , that he thinks he’s going to explode very soon if he doesn’t take what he needs. He breathes deeply, fighting for control of himself, stripping off the last of his clothes and reaching for the condom on the night-table beside him. A lubed condom, because a little extra slick never hurts. And he’s not interested in causing pain – much.

He kneels down between shaky legs, pushing unresisting thighs wider apart, reaching to open them wide, making them ready to accept him. He presses in, slowly, inch by careful, teasing inch, feeling the way open to accommodate him. There’s a powerful throbbing around his shaft, and John can see the sweat beading along his lover’s spine again.

So hot and snug around him. It’s a perfect fit, like their body was made for him, made to _take_ him. He pulls back, sliding halfway out, and smacks one round, perfect ass-cheek. Just to hear the low answering moan from behind the merciless gag, just to feel those muscles clench tightly around him in reaction.

He pushes back in, deeply, leaning over. His dog-tags hang free from his neck, brushing against flushed skin, and he knows how that must feel, the cool kiss of the metal, swinging against their spine. He reaches out, pressing a little metal rectangle flat against their back, just to watch the shudder at the unexpected sensation.

He knows he’s not going to last long – he’s too close to the edge already - so he makes it as good as he can. He moves slowly at first, as slow as he dares, letting his captive feel every inch of him impaling them. He slides his hands all over, over back, arms and legs, over the flexing muscles of their ass. He slips a hand between their body and the mattress to tease a nipple. He starts to thrust faster and faster.

“Fuck,” he grits out, pumping strongly, taking them hard, one hand now gripping a hip tightly, the other reaching around to tease sensitive flesh, to drive his lover over the brink with him, if he can.

Finally, it’s too much. Heat and tingle swallow him whole, and he gives in, thrusting one last time, balls-deep, and releases his pleasure. His orgasm must set them off, too, because before he loses all sense of where he is or what he’s doing, they’re right there, in step with him, muscles spasming as they lose themselves too…

When he can finally get his feet under himself without keeling over, he goes for the knife again, slicing carefully through the rope. He climbs up onto the bed, pulling his lover with him, cradling them against his chest, kissing their sweat-damp hair.

“Did I give you what you needed?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Mary says, exhausted and sated and happy, “You did.”


End file.
